


A bunny tale

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Easter, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Easter in 221b. Sherlock celebrates in both surprisingly traditional and perhaps-not-so-surprisingly non-traditional ways. As far as John's concerned, it's fine. It's all fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A bunny tale

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Minutiae (Or 156 Things I Know About You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/441850) by [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick). 



> (Yes, I know Easter's come and gone. But I write when inspiration strikes. I hope that's OK.)
> 
> As always, thanks to my ever-patient beta/Brit-picker, [Nichellen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen). Thanks also to AtlinMerrick, for her kindness and for creating such lovely images that one can't help but be inspired.

John was still in his pajamas, tea at his elbow and newspaper in hand when Sherlock entered the room with a rather chipper “Happy Easter, John!”

 

John lowered his newspaper to respond when the sight before him momentarily robbed him of his voice. 

 

Standing before him — in all 6 feet of his long, lean and elegant glory — was his flatmate-turned-lover, nude save for the pair of white satin bunny ears that sprouted from the riot of dark curls atop his head.

 

“Um,” John said, distantly grateful his tea was safely removed from his hands. “Um, happy Easter to you, too, Sherlock. … I’m, uh, not objecting, mind you. But what inspired this?”

 

The vague hand gesture that he paired with his words vaguely mirrored the not-so vague path of John’s eyes as he took in all of the pale beauty before him, from toe tips to bunny-ear tips — and a few surprisingly perky tips in between.

 

“Social conventions hold that people wear their best for Easter, according to Mummy’s lectures,” Sherlock said, the crisp certainty of his voice softening a bit as he smiled mischievously at John. “And I know you like social conventions, on occasion. I thought Easter might be one of those occasions.”

 

“Right. I do like your Easter best,” John said, reflecting Sherlock’s smile with a grin of his own. “Just make sure the sitting room door is locked, yeah?”

 

John reached for his tea, preparing to get back to his newspaper, when he decided one more appreciative glance at Sherlock was in order. Just as he took a sip, Sherlock switched directions on his path to check that the door was locked and John found himself sputtering into his mug, not sure if the liquid going down the wrong way or the liquid threatening to escape through his nose was the biggest threat to his being able to breathe.

 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock turned back to face John, concern furrowing his brow.

 

Another sputter or two and a throat-clearing cough allowed John to regain his lung function. He very carefully replaced his mug of tea on the nearby table, took a deep breath and met Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“Turn,” he said, making a spinning motion with his finger. “360. Slowly.”

 

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes gleamed and he watched John for a moment before pivoting on the ball of one bare foot until he was again facing John.

“OK. Again ... 180 this time.”

 

Another pivot, only half as far as the first, and Sherlock stopped — posture perfect — before giving one subtle wiggle of his hips.

 

The resulting flurry of fine, snow-white fluff — right in the middle of the plush loveliness that was Sherlock’s arse — set John off on another sputtering spree as he tried to inhale, exhale, comprehend what he was seeing and adjust to allow for the sudden tenting of his pajama bottoms.

 

“Christ, Sherlock. What the fuck is that?”

 

Sherlock threw a grin-laced glance over one shoulder and wiggled his hips again, setting off another riot of fluff.

 

“That, John, is a bunny tail. Do you like it? I thought it would go rather well with the ears.”

 

“God, yes. I like it,” John answered, one hand clutching at his thigh to keep from lunging forward for a closer look and a touch. “But, um, what’s holding it in place? I don’t see any elastic. Please tell me you’re not experimenting with duct tape on your nether regions.”

 

“Really, John. You’re seeing but not observing again,” Sherlock chided as he turned around. “It’s a plug.”

 

John had to recover from yet another bit of sputtering, this one accompanied by a tiny sound in his throat that might have mimicked a small animal being strangled. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and gave up on trying to will away what was now definitely an erection.

 

“Christ. Right. Seriously, lock the door,” he finally said. “No, let me. I should move before my brain shuts down entirely and I lose the ability.”

 

Not trusting his muscle function, John used both hands on the arms of his chair to propel himself up and, with only a slight wobble, made short work of reaching the door, securing the locks — both the chain and the magnetized deadbolt child-safety latch Sherlock had crafted to annoy (if not actually thwart) Mycroft — and making his way back to within arms’ reach of his gloriously mad lover.

 

John reached out — almost afraid to touch Sherlock, lest he find this was all a massive hallucination — and gently placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips, fitting his thumbs to sharp hip bones and letting his fingers curl to shape themselves over the uncommonly lush curve of Sherlock’s posterior.

 

Then John let his fingers slip farther toward the middle of Sherlock’s lower back and slid them down until he felt mounds of muscle under his palms and a tantalizing brush — no more than a tickle — of fluff along his fingertips. His fingers itched to feel more, to slide under the softness and explore. But he resisted, giving Sherlock’s arse a good two-handed squeeze as he leaned up for a kiss.

 

The move drew Sherlock’s body closer to John’s, but John fought the temptation to pull him in and grind their cocks together.

 

“So, is this a private Easter party or am I invited?” he asked, flushing slightly as his brain supplied a thankfully unvoiced thought about hopping down his personal Easter rabbit’s bunny trail.

 

Sherlock merely looked at John from beneath his eyelashes, dropped his voice an octave and spoke.

 

“It is definitely a private party — just us,” he purred, running an elegant finger up John’s chest before settling his hands on John’s shoulders. “You know you’re the only one I allow in my burrow.”

 

Sherlock’s voice dropped again, this time to a near whisper as he dipped his lips to John’s ear and nipped.

 

“It’s such a snug space, and you do fill it soooo thoroughly.”

 

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s bum as Sherlock clipped the hard “g” in “snug” and stretched the vowels in “so” for all they were worth, and his mind supplied a vivid image of finger-sized marks contrasting against the paleness of fluff and milky-white skin. Before he could start contemplating any other possibilities, however, Sherlock shifted both his body and his tone and spoke again.

 

“First, though, I have to finish the pysanky. It wouldn’t do not to have decorated eggs for Easter.”

 

John — brain already functioning on hormones and little else — gaped and struggled to shift gears as Sherlock pecked a kiss to his forehead and slid easily from the grasp that had, in the blink of an eye, gone from steadfast to putty. It didn’t help that Sherlock, as he turned away from John, seemed to ensure his arse brushed against John’s left hand, leaving behind the tormenting sensation of full contact with warm skin chased by the delicious flutter of wispy marabou.

 

* * * *

 

The next few hours passed tamely enough, considering John had little to do aside from watch Sherlock, resist his erection and contemplate the possibilities for once the eggs were done.

 

He showered and put on clean pajama bottoms but skipped pants and a vest — they would have made him feel overdressed, all things Sherlock considered, and he really didn’t want much to fiddle with later.

 

He also found himself thirstier than normal, which of course made it necessary to venture into the kitchen several times for a cuppa. Brushing a bit too close to Sherlock as he did, well, it couldn’t be helped.

 

OK, sure it could.

 

But John had little incentive to avoid running a hand over the slight concavity where Sherlock’s hip met thigh as the man stood watch over a dye bath. And he had no desire to avoid trailing lips over the edge of a shoulder blade as Sherlock perched just so on a cushioned bar stool. He was, however, careful to avoid the ball of fluff and, presumably, silicone still ensconced in his love after one accidental — truly — bump against it made Sherlock jerk just as he was coaxing beeswax from the stylus in the continuation of a particularly elaborate egg design.

 

Finally, shortly after John had finished a sandwich and a fistful of crisps for lunch, Sherlock carefully straightened from his work and stilled for a moment. John glanced up from his laptop in time to catch a slight flutter of eyelashes and a twitch of Sherlock’s cock — the only indications John had that the plug’s shift at the movement was having any effect on its wearer.

 

Still, John was well aware of the effect the plug was having on his own body, and he palmed at his crotch as he put aside his laptop and stood.

 

“Obviously, I’ve finished the eggs,” Sherlock said, stepping from the kitchen table to the sink and beginning to wash his hands. “All that’s left is for them to dry.”

 

“Hmm,” John said, crossing the room to stand close behind Sherlock. “Does that mean we can go at it like rabbits now?”

 

As he spoke, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest and pressed his own bare chest to Sherlock’s back. Still mindful of the plug, he kept his hips tilted away, even as his cock strained forward.

 

Sherlock showed no interest in such restraint and thrust back just enough that John could feel through the thin cotton of his pajama bottoms as the stem of the bunny tail pushed against his pelvis, just to one side of his penis. The pleased groan that worked its way from his throat at the unexpected contact was mirrored in a heady moan from Sherlock as the move nudged the plug within his body.

 

“Yes, I believe it does.”

 

Sherlock’s voice had gone deep, and John struggled not to thrust hard against Sherlock’s arse as Sherlock grabbed a towel and dried his hands. Instead, he satisfied himself with running his hands down Sherlock’s body, from his pectorals over his rib cage, down the ridges of lean abdominals and his pelvis. He let one hand skate over Sherlock’s cock — not fully erect but getting there — before he slid both hands down firm thighs.

 

By the time John began working his way back up Sherlock’s body, Sherlock had finished drying his hands, tossed the towel aside and caught John’s hands in his own. He turned, and John found himself pulled tight against Sherlock, with just about as many points of contact as possible while standing.

 

Heat seared through John’s pajama bottoms where Sherlock’s penis was finally pressed against his, and John wondered if it were possible that the temperature had simply melted away the only fabric standing between their bodies.

 

Just as John rallied his thoughts enough to reach for a kiss, Sherlock’s lips were on his. The kiss was scorching and thorough. There was no pain, no harsh grinding of lips against teeth. Yet John had no doubt he was being claimed — as if he didn’t already belong to the man in front of him, body, heart and soul.

 

The kiss was gentle yet insistent, and John offered up no resistance as Sherlock pressed his tongue past lips and teeth to ravage John’s mouth. John reveled in the sensations, and Sherlock had run his tongue over John’s teeth and along the roof of his mouth before John rallied enough thought to begin returning the kiss.

 

John let his tongue dance with Sherlock’s in a heated pas de deux that blurred the borders between their mouths. He broke the kiss, only to reach out and suck Sherlock’s lower lip between his for a moment before dragging his teeth along Sherlock’s jawline, nipping at the tender spot just below his ear and trailing his mouth down the graceful line of Sherlock’s bared throat to suck just at the outer edge of Sherlock’s clavicle — where the visibility of marks would depend on just how open he chose to wear his shirt collar.

 

Sherlock pulled back and John raised his head, the arousal he saw in Sherlock’s face making his own even more pronounced.

 

“Bedroom?”

 

Another time, their saying the exact same word at the exact same time would have sent them into a fit of giggles, but John was too far gone at this point to giggle — and he suspected the same was true of Sherlock.

 

Instead, he let Sherlock take his hand and the lead as they turned to leave the kitchen. He didn’t even pretend he raised his eyes above waist level as they padded down the hall.

 

* * * *

 

Once inside their room, door closed behind them to offer another layer of soundproofing for Mrs. Hudson’s benefit, Sherlock sprawled lengthwise across their bed, nestling into the downy duvet. He had stretched his arms above his head until his hands dangled over the far side and his head was pillowed to one side, his cheek resting on the luxurious plum-colored bed covers.

 

All in all, the position gave John an unobstructed view of acres of bare skin, interrupted only by an occasional freckle and that pile of marabou — marabou that didn’t seem to have lost any of its bounce during the past few hours.

 

Once out of his pajama bottoms, John moved over Sherlock, one knee to the left of and the other between his thighs. He leaned forward until his hands rested on Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and he kissed between them, trailing his lips down Sherlock’s spine as his hands followed the perimeter to either side.

 

When he couldn’t curl any farther, he raised his lips and straightened but let his hands continue their exploration of Sherlock’s back. He cupped Sherlock’s buttocks and squeezed gently before running his fingers in and under the edges of the marabou, gathering the fluff in a loose, two-handed bundle and lifting.

 

The motion was gentle — John wasn’t trying to remove the plug — but even that slight movement must have caused a ripple of sensation, because Sherlock — presumably sensitive after having been filled for hours — moaned and ground his crotch into the duvet.

 

“Oh, god, love,” John said, his voice breaking just a bit as it went reverent and hoarse. “You’re gorgeous. I can’t decide whether to leave this in you and pet it bald or remove it and fuck you senseless.”

 

Sherlock moaned again and raised his hips off the bed, presenting his arse to John.

 

“Fuck me, John. I don’t care how. The plug, your fingers, your cock. I don’t care. Just … Fuck. Me. Now.”

 

For all that it was Easter, John was certain no one in London had a basket filled with chocolate any darker, richer or more satisfying than Sherlock’s voice in that moment.

 

“Christ. All right. Just give me a second,” John said. “You’ve been teasing me with this all morning. I want to explore, particularly this bit … right … here.”

 

As he spoke, John freed one hand from the marabou, used his fingers to spread Sherlock’s buttocks and nuzzled his mouth along the crack of Sherlock’s backside, taking advantage of being able to reach it now that he had the fluff of the tail carefully bunched to one side. The angle wasn’t perfect, but he was able to trace his tongue along Sherlock’s skin at the edges of the plug’s handle, where he could feel still tantalizingly puckered ridges of flesh even though Sherlock had stretched to accommodate the intrusion.

 

John nipped gently at a bit of Sherlock’s arse normally hidden by the cleft and pulled back, this time deliberately giving the plug a light tug as he did. The sound it dragged from Sherlock was both incoherent and wired directly to John’s crotch for all that it sent electrical impulses shooting directly to his cock.

 

John realized he was getting dangerously — painfully — close to coming, his erection insistent against his pelvis. Still, they’d really just gotten started and he didn’t intend for it to end yet.

 

He let go of the marabou bundle and watched, mesmerized, as the individual wisps fell back into place against Sherlock’s skin. He straightened to stand again at the edge of the bed, Sherlock’s needy whinge threatening to make his knees buckle.

 

“Don’t worry, love. I’m here.”

 

With that, John put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and pulled back until Sherlock’s knees were at the edge of the mattress and his arse was in the air, thighs spread for even better access and bunny tail protruding proudly from his opening.

 

Once Sherlock was positioned, John trailed one hand down Sherlock’s thigh and used the other to snag the bottle of water-based lube off the bedside table and pop the cap. A moment later he had a dollop on his fingertips.

 

John again gathered the marabou to one side and began sliding a lubed fingertip around the edges of the plug’s base, adding a fresh layer to the lube Sherlock had used earlier when he inserted the plug.

 

Sherlock writhed wantonly under the touch and John’s mind was filled with the image of Sherlock working himself open to insert the toy.

 

“Christ, I wish you had let me watch while you prepped yourself for this,” he said. “I can picture you sliding your fingers inside yourself, working the muscle, your body wanting more. The way I always, always want more of you.”

 

“I imagined .. it was … you,” Sherlock ground out, panting between syllables as his hands fisted in the duvet. “You touching me, you filling …”

 

Sherlock didn’t finish that thought, because that’s when John gave the plug another careful but steady tug, this time dislodging it and forcing the ring of muscle holding it in place to stretch around its widest point as the toy began to leave Sherlock’s body.

 

When John had the plug almost free, he paused, holding his hand steady to prevent Sherlock’s body from finishing its instinctive rejection of the object. He reached for the lube again and slicked his cock with a single, efficient stroke before adding more to the plug.

 

Rather than slide it back in, though, John took advantage of the plug’s position and Sherlock’s spread thighs to lean in and swipe his tongue upward from the pucker of the plug’s nesting spot to the top edge of the now almost-stretched-flat seam separating Sherlock’s halves.

 

“Johnnn.” Sherlock’s voice had taken on a gratifyingly pleading quality, and John nipped again at his arse before giving the plug a 180-degree twist but otherwise holding it steady, neither really in nor completely out of Sherlock’s opening.

 

“John, please,” Sherlock said. “I need more. I need you — or it or something — inside me.”

 

With that, Sherlock tried to thrust backward, to impale himself fully on the plug. Only John’s firm hand on his hip held him in place.

 

“Careful, love,” John said. “Any farther back and you’ll be off the bed. … Is this what you want?”

 

And, with that, John slid the lube-slicked silicone back into Sherlock, thrusting his aching cock against the back of Sherlock’s thigh at the same time.

 

“Oh, god, John. Yes.” The words scraped from Sherlock’s throat, ragged and broken and needy and satisfied and a wealth of other expressions all rolled into single-syllable words. “More, please. More.”

 

John, fascinated as he was by the bunny tail and how it looked decorating Sherlock, had considered fucking Sherlock with the plug while pressing himself between Sherlock’s thighs until he came. But that plan went out the window when Sherlock said “please.”

 

“Christ, love,” John said, running one hand around Sherlock’s hip to take hold of his shaft while using the other to slide the plug out and in again. “You beg so fucking prettily. I could listen to it all day.”

 

“Please, John, please. I need more. I need to come.”

 

“OK, love. I’ll take care of you. Promise. You’re just so … so, fuck.”

 

At this, John gave up on talking, gave the plug another twist and slid it from Sherlock one last time before dropping it to the floor.

 

Sherlock responded with a needy whinge that bordered on a cry before John lined himself up and burrowed into Sherlock in one smooth thrust. John held still for a moment, simply enjoying the sensation of being inside Sherlock and struggling to hold on to his self-control.

 

Then he set a rhythm that blended plunging his cock into Sherlock’s arse with squeezing and sliding his hand along Sherlock’s erection.

 

“God, I’m so close,” Sherlock choked out as he writhed under John, seemingly unsure whether to push into John’s hand or back onto his penis and struggling to do both.

 

“Then come for me, love,” John said. “Come, and set me off.”

 

Sherlock gave one last loud moan with his face buried in the duvet and came, his ejaculate spurting over John’s hand and on to the bed covers.

 

The tensing of his muscles tightened Sherlock’s arse around John and, after one last hard and tight thrust, John went still as his vision went dark and sparkly all at once. A moment later he felt heady relief as he came, pulsing hard and warm inside Sherlock.

 

After a few moments in which both men struggled to breathe, Sherlock shifted until he was lying flat on the bed, though he was careful not to dislodge John — from either his position inside him or his place bonelessly sprawled across Sherlock’s back.

 

John finally stirred enough to raise his head. He kissed — slowly — at sweat-slick shoulder blades before sliding himself out of and off of Sherlock and lifting a hand to thread through inky curls.

 

“Amazing,” he said.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied languidly. “You, too.”

 

“Oh, I don’t mean the shagging,” John said. “Though that was definitely amazing.”

 

Sherlock shifted his head to meet John’s gaze, asking “what then” with just a look.

 

“As thoroughly fucked as you’ve just been,” John said, an affectionate grin taking over his face, “how is it even possible that your bunny ears are still in place?”

 

* * * *

 

Sherlock gave away some of his not-quite-traditional pysanky as gifts. Mrs. Hudson ended up with one that mirrored 221b’s living room wallpaper, complete with smiley face. Mycroft received one that looked as if it were raining umbrellas. He seemed a bit bemused when Sherlock handed it to him, but the delicate piece of art nonetheless ended up on display in Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes Club. Lestrade got one featuring the London eye.

 

Yet other eggs found a permanent home on the mantle in 221b. Some suspected Sherlock’s favorite was the one with the bees and honeycomb pattern or the one with the skull. They considered that John, doctor that he was, might like the one with the DNA double helix.

 

Neither man bothered to set anyone straight; Sherlock, for once, resisted an arrogant “wrong.”

 

But John and Sherlock agreed their favorite was the rather normal one others tended to overlook amid the flat’s oddities.

 

Nestled between the one with the bees and the one with the helix was an egg decorated primarily in a rich plum shade. In the middle was a bunny — seen from the back — with long ears, plush flanks — and a big, fluffy tail.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a tad ridiculous just how many ideas this fic inspired in me. My brain supplied images for an entire collection of Easter eggs dyed by Sherlock. My art skills being what they are, I managed to translate [one](http://batik96.tumblr.com/image/52867596851). Had I waited to post the fic after attempting others, I would have been posting this in time for next Easter!


End file.
